My Demon

My Demon



Everybody has their demons. I am no different in this regard. Mine is just as evil as the majority of demons. I guess you could say he is of average evil-ocity, maybe a little more, but not much...



And that pisses me off.



I'm riding down some back road highway, specifically avoiding the interstate. Just wanting to make my trip alone. Keeping my mind on the road and my thoughts. The less traffic the better when you're on a motorcycle.



I see a flash in the sky out of the corner of my eye. I turn in the direction of the flash to look and saw nothing, pitch-black night and stars. It reminded me of being in the hospital and my friend holding up my jean jacket to show me after I took three rounds of bird shot from some idiots twelve gauge. He didn't get the chance to tell his story of how he almost killed Jack “Chainsaw” Williams.



At that, the memory of how I got the nickname Chainsaw finds it's way into my head.



And that pisses me off.



There was a string of murders in the suburbs of southern L. A. Some sick fuck just saw Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and decided he needed to try it out himself. Went on a nice killing spree with a chainsaw. The cops went to the press for leads. The sketch artist rendering came on the screen and one of my buddies says, “Hey, that looks like you. I didn't know you hung out in lower L.A. Ha, ha, ha...” laughing his ass off. Getting up from the couch, “Hey, Chainsaw, I'm getting another brew, want one?” giggling like some schoolgirl on the play yard.



“No, and don't call me that.”



Being connected to the murders wasn't even a thought to me. It had been five days since they had found the first body, which they had estimated having been dead three days. And, we had just got back in town that morning from a week-long rally in Las Vegas. I haven't even been home for two weeks; we took a northern route to Vegas through Reno and Salt Lake City, then back south. Spent five nights in Vegas and straight home after the rally. Turns out, it was my absence that would both incriminate and exonerate me. Sad part is, all it took was one finger, one phone call to inhibit my further freedom. But, it took our clubs lawyer, five out of state police agencies, two surveillance tapes, a few speeding tickets, an out of state court date, and a shit load of money to get the charges dropped.



And, that pisses me off.



“Hey, chainsaw, here's your beer, Bud.”


“I said don't call me that.”


“Man. What did those people do to cross you're ass?”


“Fuck off.”


“Man.  A chainsaw isn't your thing though man. Covering your tracks, huh?” laughing.



I crack open my beer I didn't want, and take a long drink. Nice, bittersweet, bubbly, ant piss. The sketch is on the TV again, and I must say I can see a resemblance. I think nothing more of it.



“Hey, Chainsaw...” Awakens me from my daze of thoughts of my plans fro the night. I pull my .32 and put a hole in the arm of the couch just inches below where his arm rests, “Don't call me that again.”


“A...A...Alright man. Sorry, I was just joking.”


“I know but it's tired now.”



Now I don't have an aversion to killing. I've done my share. But, when I got home from the bar, there was an update on TV about the chainsaw murders. More bodies were found; the count had almost doubled to fifteen. They had found not only males, but also women and children. The youngest was only three. What was left was lying next to his mother who was tied to the bed, and... um... run up with the chainsaw.



Like I said I've don’t my share in my time. But they all had it coming. Never would I kill a child or an innocent. The ones I've taken care of, either killed friends, or got in the way of business, and friend, my business is war.



Damn, it's dark out here. Where the hell am I? Ahh... A road sign, “Watonga, straight ahead; Arapaho, Clinton, right.” The intersection I was looking for, bout ready for a room for the night.



FLASH



That wasn’t from the corner of my eye. It was almost like lightening but no clouds, no thunder. It came from north to south, a streak of light... that's what it was.... Just a streak of light. Yea.. That’s it.



Well here's my turn. No sign of what caused the flash... streak of light. Maybe just weary. I need to find a room.



Ducking to the fluttering sound of wings, I wobble but keep her rubber down. Damn that was a big bird, hawk, owl, something. Damn near laid 'er over.



And that pisses me off.



No, that sick fuck was just gong on a killing spree. Sawing anyone he could get his hands on. No rhyme or reason for his victims, a nurse here, retired grandpa there, a priest, kids, cops, teachers, it didn't matter.



And that pisses me off.



Well not the cops so much, but still, ain't no reason for mindless killing.



Sittin there filling up the bike at the station just three blocks from the house. I hear sirens, nothing uncommon in most of L. A. Five cruisers and two S.W.A.T. vans come barreling in the parking lot, jumping curbs, sliding sideways, blairin 'n flairin, as we say. Damn what happened? As I tighten my gas cap, I notice they're boxing me in.



What the fuck?


“Put your hands on your head and step away from the pump and motorcycle!”

What the hell? Guns pointed at me, riot shields, bright lights, bullhorn screaming, sirens blaring. Red, blue, red, blue, red, blue...



Oh... what the hell. Something hit me in the right side of my ribs. Coming around to what's going on, they're here for me!? That must have been one of those bean bag shells they're using for their shotguns now. I didn't even hear the gun go off!!!



“Put...your...hands...on...your...head...”



I raise my arms and do as they say. I don't know what's going on, but I'm not going to try to fight them.



“Step away from the bike!”



“Walk toward me.”



Laying face down I smell the oil, spilled gas and diesel, antifreeze, grease, and... Doublemint Gum?

Cuffs work their way into my wrists as they 'help' me up. I see the source of the gum smell. It's stuck to my riding jacket.



And that pisses me off.



“You got any weapons? Guns, knives, on your person or your vehicle? How about any drugs?”


“Yes and no.”


“What?”


“Yes I got a .32 caliber inside my left boot, a knife in my back right pocket, and a .45 in my shoulder harness. No drugs anywhere.”





These damn back seats are uncomfortable as hell; hard plastic and you can't lean back for the cuffs digging in even more when you do. They're loading up my bike on a roll back truck, damn, impounded.



And that pisses me off.



“What the hell is going on?”





“Time to eat.” the C.O. says as he opens the bean hole and slides me a tray with the morning paper and my court papers. I read over my charges as I eat what they pass off as breafkast here.



“What the hell?”



I'm being charged with the chainsaw murders. “Fuck.” I wasn't even in the state then.


Twenty-seven counts of murder, and one count of possession of an illegal firearm. The gun I'll admit to, got it fourth hand. No numbers, hotter than a branding iron on a horse’s ass.



I finish my breakfast and pass my tray back to the officer. Well let's see what the paper has to say. And that's where I saw it.



“Man Indicted In The Chainsaw Murders.”



Front-page headline. Mug shot and all was there, “Jack 'Chainsaw' Williams was arrested yesterday evening at a gas station near his home. He has been formally charged with the 'Chainsaw Murders' in Southern Los Angeles and it's suburbs...”



Illegal gun, biker, biker gang, were all readily mentioned as was suspected of killing many others. They assumed that I finally snapped and went crazy with my chainsaw, and that the chainsaw was my M.O. and thus my nickname with club, because I like to use a chainsaw to exact my revenge on rival 'gang' members. Neither of which is true, or was true. Never even touched a chainsaw, nor do I have a nickname. I have always been just Jack or J.W. Well, I guess I got one now.

And, that's how I became Jack 'Chainsaw' Williams.



And that pisses me off.



“Mr. Williams? Do you know what your charges are?”


“Yes.”


“Ok. Mr. Williams. How do you plea to the charges brought before you?”


“To the gun guilty, to the rest innocent.”


“Mr. Williams. You do realize that the sketch is a very close resemblance of you, someone in your neighborhood tipped us after the sketch was released that it could be you. That we have witnesses that are willing to testify that you weren't home during the time of the murders. And, you were also pointed out in a line up last week by an eyewitness and survivor?”


“Yes, your honor, I am aware of that.”


“Would you like to change your plea?”


“No.”


“Ok, bail set at fifty million dollars. Adjourned.”



And that pisses me off.



“Charges dropped on Jack 'Chainsaw' Williams.”



I read the headline of the paper, as I sit in the holding area of the jail awaiting my release. Four more bodies were found while I was waiting my court date. It's funny that they couldn't try me on illegal possession of the gun. They unlawfully arrested me. “Ha ha ha.”



“It's time to go,” my lawyer says, holding his briefcase, hand mad from Italy. Bought with club money.



“Jack, we've got to hurry and get this shit settled. You’ve got to be in Vegas day after tomorrow. It was part of the agreement to get copies of that surveillance tapes. States evidence ya know? I also took care of those tickets you got in Clarke, Nevada and Salt Lake City. This is about the only time you'll hear me say it's good that you broke the law and got caught. Or, your ass would be up for murders you didn't commit.”


“Yea.”


“I booked a flight to Vegas this afternoon. And...”


“I'm riding out there, get a refund on mine.”


“Well.. uh... you're.. You're supposed to turn yourself in day after tomorrow for that fight you and your
buddies got into down there.”


“I know. I'll be at the Bellagio tonight and go in the morning. You said they weren't going to hold me. Just wanted me in town till the court date. Right?”


“Well yea. But I told them...”


“I don't care what you said. I'll meet you at the hotel this evening.”

At home gathering my emergency stash of cash and a spare disposable gun. Didn't get the .32 back because the numbers were filed off.



Now, off to Las Vegas.



I called some of the guys that had to appear in court with me and they’re meeting me at the clubhouse and we’re heading out from there.



The next three months were pretty uneventful. Mostly drinking, women, gambling, and riding. Most of they boys were theeming hard for their drugs because we had to do a test for that shit at so they were 'cleaning out their systems'. I just drink and smoke my Winston’s, never got into drugs myself. I've always preferred Jack Daniels and Budweiser myself.



One thing exciting did happen though. Guy thought I was boning his wife and confronted me in the grocery store parking lot where she worked. I tired to talk to him about it. Apparently his wife had taken a liking to me and wanted him to get a bike because of.



“You sorry son of a bitch! I'm gonna kill you! This is what you deserve you low life piece of shit!”



“Whoa, man. I ain't touched your wife; I don't know who you are or who your wife is. Or why you think I banging her.”



That's when I see the shotgun swinging above the hood of his truck.



“I'll teach you biker fucks not to fuck with a hunters wife!”



BAM!!!



“Oh, shit!” I turn and duck but I feel the pellets pelting me, it stings. It feels like I've been hit with salt. I stand back up and turn to the guy. “Hey, listen man! I'm not fucking your wife ya damned idiot! Now don't be stupid, put the gun down and lets talk and think about this.”



His grip relaxes. Still in his grip he lays the shotgun on the hood.




“Listen man, I don't know what's going on between you and your wife. But, I guarantee it's not me
fucking her.”



“I think you're lying, how do I know you're telling me the truth?”



“Because I haven't slept with anyone but hookers, since got into Los Vegas a month ago.”



“She started talking about getting a motorcycle about three weeks ago. You calling my wife a hooker!? You lying bastard!!!”



BAM!!! BAM!!!



Another shot, I didn't have time to react but one way. As, I was ducking and recoiling from the sting on my arms, my face, chest and hands. I drew my .45 and let all eight rounds fly. Four found their mark, one took out the ice cooler motor, three hit the pickup.



In the hospital after the cops had asked their questions and left my room. She came in as my friend was showing me my bird shot jacket.



“I'm so sorry.” Almost crying. Still in her smock from the grocery store. She was a cashier at the store. I found out that he was a jealous husband, she never cheated on him, and it was my fault she wanted a bike. But, for reasons other that what he had thought. I apologized for shooting her husband.



Since it was such a busy weekend, they couldn't determine who started the fight at the casino during the rally. We just got a hell of a fine, court costs, and damages were divided between us, except for S.D. He pulled a gun during the fiasco and was found guilty of brandishing a deadly weapon. He was sentenced to eighteen months in jail and three years probation.



FLASH!



Damn that one was close; I felt the wind off it. Sounded like those model rockets we did in eighth grade science. But, this time I see the trail of it and a glow off to my left. I’m coming up on a farmhouse, looks like a section line road up ahead. I pull off to the side of the road. Looking east and I see a reddish glow in the distance. Hard to tell how far, a couple of miles or so?



Looking over the windshield of my bike, I see the glow of lights of what I think is Clinton. I light up a Cohiba, and sit there, just the bike and me. Listening to the rumble coming from the bike. I think. Go on into town and continue on my way? Or, left and satisfy my curiosity?



I don’t remember putting my bike in gear, or turning down this county road. But, the glow is getting closer, and I still have my cigar in my mouth.



Pulling into a driveway I notice the sign, “Devon Energy. Authorized Personnel Only.” Must be a lease road to an old oil well, or could be a gas well. The drill for both here don’t they? I remember the smell and look of the entrance at a drilling site from when mom and I would take dad and his co-workers lunch sometimes back home, when I was a kid.




The light is inside the site, behind some tanks. They look like over-sized batteries, with the reddish back-light.



Walking toward the tanks, it sounds like a voice is calling me.



“Jack… Jack… Jack Williams?”



As I get closer, it gets clearer.



“Jack Williams? Is that you Jack?”



“Uuh… Umm… Yea… It’s me.”


“Wh… Who are you?”



“I’m your demon, Jack.”



“My demon?”



“Yes Jack. Your personal demon.”



“Wh… Wha… What do you mean my personal demon?”



“I’m your own personal demon, Jack.”



“I don’t… I don’t understand.”



“Everybody has them Jack. And, I’m yours.”



“I thought that was just a saying about people and their vices?”



“No. Not just a saying Jack.”



The voice had the pitch and sustain of a rock ballad solo from the late eighties or early nineties. And, had
the tone of a mother comforting a child.



“But, why do I need a demon?”



“You have earned me Jack.”



“What? How? I don’t get it.”



“You have done enough bad in you life to have made me become real and alive. You have earned me
Jack.”



“Oh, ok, what do you do exactly?”



“I help you Jack. I ride with you.”



“How do you help me?”



“With any problems you have.”



“Huh. How do you ride with me and not get noticed?”



“On your arm, a tattoo Jack.”



“Humm… Well, hell. I’m damned anyway so… jump on, I’m getting tired. Um… Exactly how do we do
this?”



“Don’t worry about that Jack. With me sleep isn’t really necessary Jack.” It says as I feel claws dig into
my flesh on my right forearm. I can feel it crawling like worms under my skin. Our consciousnesses
melding, becoming one, its energy flowing through my nerves, its power seeping into me. Burning in my veins, through my arms, legs, my heart pounding as his blood pumps through me. I can feel my bones changing, rearranging my face and build, ever so slightly. But, changing.



Unlocking the door I wonder what it looks like, what I look like.



My own personal demon, a grin creeps to my lips. It was too bright to see out there while we were… merging. And, too dark afterward to see. I take off my jacket and head to the bathroom, thinking about the pictures and drawings of demons I’ve seen in the past. My grin widens.



Standing in front of the mirror, I splash my face with a little water to wake up a little. Take a nice long swallow of my beer.



Rolling up the sleeve to admire my new demon… tattoo.



“My own personal demon.”



Its pink, and furry like a Pomeranian.



And that pisses me off.